Blossom the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels
by DarkmoonSigel
Summary: A very small story about what Castiel does when he is not with the Winchesters. The title is from Evangeline by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Fluff. Destiel if you squint.


AN- Credit for this goes to my muse, maplevogel on Tumblr. NO BETA. READ AT OWN RISK.

In the language of flowers, Forget-me-not means True Love, or 'the love that never dies'. Not an expert so I googled this so if it's wrong... 'shrugs' Cherry blossoms-gentleness/kindness  
Dandelion- Coquetry  
Red rose- True love  
White rose- silence or innocence  
Sunflower- pure thoughts  
Orange blossom- Chasity, purity, and loveliness  
White lily- Purity  
Maple- success and prosperity  
Birch-Renewal and protection

When he is not with the Winchesters, crammed into the back of the Impala to watch the bland MidWest scenery pass by at an excruciatingly slow pace, Castiel goes to fields of flowers all over the world and sits among the blooms.

In Florida, there is a grove of orange trees he likes to walk through and watch the bees flit among the sweet smelling white flowers there while petals float around him like peculiar, fragrant snow.

The angel sits on the pinnacle of a hill in Colorado to watch fields of sunflowers turn theirs large heads upward to greet the sun like the devout worshippers they have been for centuries.

While wandering in Japan, he strolls through immaculately kept temples to watch the blush of the cherry trees, and enjoy the sweet smelling breezes of spring.

In gardens dating back to the times of the great English queens and kings, in the shadows of time ruined and weary castles Castiel stops to smell the roses. The evergreen bushes full of thorn are bowed heavy with velvety petals in shades of ancient spilled blood.

Unaffected by the killing heat of the Sahara, Castiel watches the rare rains that come to the deadly desert and the wealth of life that welcomes the return of water like an answering miracle of greenery and flowers that haven't seen the light of day in decades.

Deep in wet, dripping jungles of the Amazon, plants that have yet to be discovered, much less named, already have an admirer who will remember the perfume of their flowers long after they have been made extinct.

In Illinois, three sisters have spent the afternoon collecting dandelion bouquets, braiding the sticky green stems before wrapping them up with ribbon. They give their golden harvest to the lonely looking man in the trench coat who has spent the better part of the afternoon talking to some silvery birch trees.

Somewhere in the forests of Quebec, the angel admires a grove of Maple trees who have already changed out their leaves for battle, their crimson garb bright as flame against the coming winter.

In Spain when all the leaves are still moist with morning dew, Castiel walks though the careful rows and rows of vineyard, the sweet meat of the fruit thick and ripe. He has never tasted the grapes, just admires the glossy shine and deep color of their skin, so deep purple it looks black.

In Rome, Castiel accepts a flawless white rose from a dirty child whose filth barely disguises the bruises on pale skin. He pays the street urchin with a blessing that heal all wounds. Afterward, he literally puts the fear of god into the child's handler, leaving the man broken in more ways than some.

By the Ganges, he sits on a riverbank and watches the offerings to another god float by, the flowers like strange stars lit up from within by tiny candles on the nebula of the water's surface.

At a festival in Switzerland that found its beginnings in long forgotten pagan rituals, a crown of wildflowers is placed on his dark head. He leaves it there until all the petals wilt and shower down their passing from this world.

While San Francisco, he walks through rows and rows of white crosses honoring the victorious dead, admiring a wealth of lilies some mourner has left there. When he leaves, Castiel passes through a pet cemetery with some the graves marked with little handfuls of flowers, pulled out fresh from the earth. He considers these meager offerings just as intently as he does the far grander ones. Both places make him equally sad though for different reasons.

If anyone were to ask the angel what his favorite flower was out of all, Castiel would smile and produce a tiny spring from his coat pocket, kept fresh and alive with the tiniest iota of his own grace. It is a simple bloom composed of five blue petals set around a gold center.

Castiel never picks flowers for himself. He doesn't see the point of it but this was given to him, a careless gesture on another's part who couldn't have known their meaning in the language of flowers. In all fairness, very few retain the knowledge that True Love can even be represented by such a humble flower.

The token of affection was given to him in feigned jest, the words accompanying it awkward and stilted, the petals said to be the same shade as his vessel's eyes. That means something to humans for some reason, the angel is sure of if now, because Castiel knows that the one who gave the flowers to him keeps his own spray of forget-me-nots pressed and safe within the pages of his father's journal.

Castiel will freely admit it is one of his most precious possessions, this strange and unlikely sentiment from a being created to value none.

He might even tell you who it is from.

If you ask.

-

Thanks for reading. Comments are the forget-me-nots of the internet.


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